


can't fight this feeling any longer

by wonthetrade



Series: my head's not bowed [11]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Epic Love, F/M, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 07:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11077140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonthetrade/pseuds/wonthetrade
Summary: The thing about being inevitable is The Moment can take forever. Sid should know; she and Geno have had many over the years.





	can't fight this feeling any longer

**Author's Note:**

> The secret nickname for this fic is PUT THOSE DAMN HEARTEYES AWAY.
> 
> We’ve taken some liberties with the time of a handful of WBS call ups. *shrug* 
> 
> And as per usual if you got here by googling yourself or someone you know, go ahead and click the little button that gets you out of this tab/window. You'll thank us.

“They’re saying I’m finished, Taylor. That I’ve had my time. _That’s_ how bad this slump is.”

Taylor huffs on the other end of the line. “Yeah, and it’s bullshit, Sid. Your production’s down, we get it. The Pens aren’t doing great, we get it, but you’re still the best damn player in the world. You’ll get over it. You always do.”

“But what if-” Sid chokes on the words and cannot seem to force them past the lump in her throat. _What if they’re right?_

The words go unspoken but somehow Taylor still hears them. “Sidney Crosby, I swear to god, you’d better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking or-”

Her call waiting chirps and she can’t help the feeling of dread when she sees Mario’s number on the screen. “Taylor, I have to go. It’s Mario.”

“Who is _not_ calling to tell you about a trade for fuck’s sake-”

Sid hangs up. She’ll regret it later when Taylor rips into her again (and her phone is already buzzing incessantly with texts), but Sid’s also never been all that great at avoiding Mario.

“Sid. Good. I was hoping I’d catch you. I wanted you to know first and to hear it from me.”

She inhales sharply. What’s he going to say? That’s the kind of thing that comes before an announcement of a trade. What if it’s Flower? What if it’s _Geno_? Maybe even- “Mario, I-”

“We’ve fired Mike.”

Everything catches in the back of her throat. “I- What?”

“We felt it was time for a change.”

“Oh.”

“We’re bringing Sullivan up from Wilkes-Barre. He’s done some good work down there. We feel it’s the best for the team, some fresh air.”

“Sure,” Sid agrees because she doesn’t know what else to say. It’s not the change she’d anticipated, certainly. Not with the trade market and the teams looking for the ‘all in’ piece for their playoff push.

“We’re going to need you on board, okay?” Mario tells her and she’s weirdly grateful they’re doing this on the phone where he can’t see whatever the hell her face is doing. She has an excellent, well-broken-in media face, but Mario is not the media and she's spent too much time comfortable in his home for Mario not to know even her smallest micro-expressions. “Sully’s a good guy and we need him to gel up here if we’re going to make the playoffs.”

Hell, if they’re going to get out of the basement of the Eastern Conference. As if Mario doesn’t know Sid pays attention to these things.

“Of course,” she agrees easily. There’s too much relief racing through her to stay aware of this conversation much longer.

“I expect you’ll meet him tomorrow. My office.”

She knows a summons when she hears it. “I’ll be there.”

“I know.” And his voice is warm now, _Mario’s_ voice, rather than the owner of the Pittsburgh Penguins. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

She texts Taylor after hanging up, _I didn’t get traded._

 _Of course you didn’t, dumbass,_ Taylor texts back immediately. _You are legitimately the only person on the entire planet that thought that was an option_.

Sid magnanimously ignores that. _We’re getting a new coach. From WB._

It takes a few minutes before Taylor writes back, _Clean slates are good for you._

“But I hate change,” Sid murmurs at her traitorous sister, then goes off to dig up her workout gear. She hates change, sure, but she’s also really good at ignoring it.

 

Mike Sullivan is, if Sid’s honest, an unassuming man. He sits in Mario’s office in a well-tailored suit and Sid, in her post-practice sweats, feels both weirdly at home and severely underdressed.

“Coach,” she says, and from the little smirk Mario hides in his shoulder it’s wary rather than welcoming.

“Sully,” comes the response with a smile that actually does wonders to put Sid at ease. “Ms. Crosby.”

Her nose wrinkles against her will. She hates that level of formality. “Sid.”

Mario stands and comes around his desk, squeezing her shoulder. “I’ll leave you to figure out what you want our next steps to be.”

Sully’s face is serious when Sid settles into a nearby chair. “I’m not the enemy here.”

Sid is too damn good at the bland media face to be swayed like that. “Of course not.”

There’s a beat, then two. “You are extremely important to this team.”

Her cheeks flare because she never knows what to say to that. She does everything she can for her team, there’s no question about it, but she’s not the only one out there. “I-“

“It’s not a question. You’re a cornerstone here.”

Her fist clenches. Releases.

“We need to be on the same team.”

“Of course,” she replies and absolutely abhors how this feels like the media. “I-“ She grits her teeth for a moment. “We needed a change.”

Sully offers her a flash of a grin. “You’re famous for hating change.” His gaze flicks down to her Crocs, bright against the general colour scheme of the Penguins. “You’re also famous for knowing your hockey.”

Her cheeks still feel too warm. She likes hockey; it’s not her fault it means she nerds out about it as easily as she breathes. “So, I’m going to ask you: where do you see the problems?”

Sid feels a smile start across her face.

 

Afterwards, she finds Geno sprawled on the couch in the lounge. He mutes the television and cranes his neck back to watch her, and she offers him something of a smile.

“You scare him away?” Geno asks as she gets closer, his lips quirking upward.

“He thinks we’re slow.”

Geno hums consideringly as she rests her arms on the back of the couch and leans down. Her elbow brushes companionably against his shoulder. “Could use speed. We getting old.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sid grouses. “I’m still fast.”

“You cheat in race,” he replies dismissively. Sid squawks despite the fact that she knows it’s exactly what Geno had been going for.

“He’ll be good though, I think,” she says quietly, mulling it over. “A fresh start for the new year.”

“Taylor wise beyond years,” he agrees with a sage nod and grins when she grumbles.

“At least it means we’re not getting traded.”

“Know that, stupid,” he retorts irritably. “I’m meet new coach, too.”

“Ass.” But she hops over the back of the couch to curl up beside him, his body strong and solid against hers. “What did you think?”

He shrugs, the movement jostling her shoulder. “Knows team,” he says. “Knows heart.”

Sid hums. She’d gotten that sense too, that Sully knew about the core of the Penguins the same way he knew about the kids in Wilkes-Barre. “New coach. New systems.”

Geno eyes her speculatively. “Same Sid.”

“Same Geno,” she shoots back, nudging his shoulder. “But. First Duper, then Johnson…”

Geno rolls his eyes so hard she feels it. “We find you new winger. Better than Duper. Not hard.”

Sid’s laugh is a little shaky – Duper’s still a very, very sore spot in her heart – but she drops her head to his shoulder. “You’re still here.”

“Always here, dummy.” He kisses her head. Her heart leaps like it always does when it comes to Geno. “Where I go?”

“Anywhere,” she answers truthfully. “We kind of suck right now, G.”

“Maybe if not so lazy-“

“I’m not Nealer, that won’t work on me,” she says with a laugh.

“No.” His voice is low, intimate and it makes her shiver. “Not Nealer.”

“Oh ew. Not where the children can see!”

Geno retorts with a string of Russian that, by the tone, has to be insulting. Flower, standing in the doorway with the biggest shit eating grin on his face, responds in French with something Sid knows is equally insulting, despite the cheerful tone.

“Mom, Dad,” Flower continues. “Conor Sheary.”

It’s only then Sid notices the man just over Flower’s shoulder. She moves reflexively away from Geno as his hand drops to just above her knee. She sucks in a breath. Whatever, she reminds herself. It’s not like the league doesn’t know they’re ridiculously codependent. “Hi.”

“Crosby. Malkin.”

Sid knows what that gleam means, still gets it in her own eyes sometimes when she remembers she routinely gets to have dinner with The Mario Lemieux.

Geno tilts his head to the side. “I call dibs, yes? You play with me.”

“Um,” Sheary tries, eyes wide behind thick-framed glasses.

Flower cackles. “This one’s all Sid’s, Geno.” He turns to Sheary in blatant appraisal. “If he can keep up.”

“Don’t eat peanut butter. Be fine,” Geno replies with an airy wave of his hand.

“Rude,” Sid answers mildly but her stomach’s warm.

 

But sure enough, the next day Sheary’s on her wing. It works well, she thinks as they run through the first round of drills together. Sheary’s young, fast. He’ll do well. So she ends up pulling him aside.

“What do you want to know?”

Sheary blinks. “Huh?”

“About me. Or about playing with a woman. Whatever.”

Sheary’s face lights up when he laughs, and it puts Sid at ease faster than any platitudes or reassurances. “I’ve seen your tape, Crosby. I’ve seen your interviews. I grew up with you, just like the rest of the rookies. All I need to know is where you want me to be.”

For the first time since Duper pulled her aside to announce his retirement, Sid thinks maybe this whole change thing will turn out okay.

 

The new year, however, doesn’t just mean a new coach, it means the annual dog and pony show the NHL calls the All Star Game. There’s a part of Sid, if she's honest, that loves it when she manages to attend. It’s a low-key weekend, hockeywise. There’s no pressure, nothing on the line other than pride and it’s the one time of year she actually gets to interact with players without the overlying sense of competition.

But more than that, she actually gets to hang out with the women.

Nashville’s loud and excited about the way the NHL has converged on the city. It shouldn’t make Sid nostalgic, but walking into a hotel room already packed with the loud chatter and chirping of the women makes her chest tight.

“Oh good,” Tyler says and her grin looks a little manic. “Jack’s up right now, but when I’m done with her, it’s your turn.”

“You’re delusional, Seguin,” Sid replies as she carefully gives the bathroom and its weapons of dermatological destruction a wide berth. She finds the room packed with some of her favourite people taking up every available surface. Carey tugs her right over to plop her on the floor at the end of one of the beds.

“Braids,” she says with relish and Sid’s not about to argue with that. Carey knows so many amazing ways to braid hair. It makes Sid a little jealous sometimes.

“Did you really need to bring all of these dresses for one weekend?” Dani asks from where she’s pawing through Tyler’s suitcase. The sheer amount of sequins makes Sid shiver.

But it’s an entirely different shiver she feels when she looks around the room and the sheer number of women there. It isn’t new, but it never gets old: Steph and Jordie by the windows doing their nails; Marcia making fun of Tyler’s inability to pack light; Tyler sniping back while applying Jack’s makeup...there are so many of them and she wants that to always be the case.

Even when Tyler’s swoops in after Carey’s done to put mountains of makeup on her face.

“Okay, okay!” Tyler sounds far too excited when she steps back. “Close your eyes Sid, we’ll help you get into your dress.”

There’s a lot of shuffling and giggling as she complies. Dani ducks back to her room to get a proper bra - “For heaven’s sake, Sid, you can’t wear a sports bra with _everything_.”

Then silence. “What?” Sid ventures. “Look, I told you it was too much.”

“Dude. _Sid_.” Marcia’s voice is behind her, and presumably it’s her hands that guide her forward. “You look fucking amazing. Open your eyes.”

It’s absolutely a cliche, but Sid does not recognize the woman in the mirror. Carey’s done absolute magic with her hair, and she barely knows how to describe it. Braids on the side of her head, and something like a mohawk going down the back. Her eyes are smudgy and black in a way that somehow doesn't make her look like a panda, or like she’s lost sleep.

Most of all, there’s the dress. Jet-black, it covers her arms and goes down to just past her knees, but it hugs just about everything in between in thin, horizontal panels. “I,” she falters. “My ass-”

“Looks even better than usual,” Marcia remarks cheerfully. “Eat your heart out, Kim Kardashian.”

“Sid, you look _hot_ ,” Tyler squeals, jumping up and down. “Seriously. Malkin’s going to _die_.”

She flushes despite herself. “That’s not what I’m aiming for!”

“That’s a shame,” Dani murmurs, her mouth quirking up at the corner. “Because that’s going to be his reaction, nonetheless.”

Geno doesn’t die when he sees her. He does, however, run straight into Ovi, who trips into Tarasenko. From there, it’s a domino effect of tumbling Russians, some of them crashing to the floor and all of them cursing at one another. Geno is oblivious, his eyes wide and so dark as he looks at her from head to toe and then back again. His gaze is like a caress, one that has her flushing and feeling jittery, like she’s been struck by lightning.

“Sid,” he breathes.

Ovi heaves himself to his feet, his face red as he brushes dirt off his suit. “Чё за галима!” he begins, shoving at Geno’s shoulder, before he catches sight of her. He looks between them, brain clearly going a mile a minute, and _beams_. “Sid so pretty!” he begins, stepping forward with his arms open-

-only for Geno to clothesline him across the chest. He bites out something sharp and guttural, something that Ovi laughingly protests before he goes to collect the rest of the Russian mafia, all of them back on their feet and grinning like lunatics.

It leaves Sid and Geno alone because of course all of women have also scattered. Traitors. “Vero picked the dress,” Sid blurts out, because she really can’t think of anything to say, not when he’s looking at her like...like that one guy from _Tangled_ \- which she only knows because it’s Estelle’s favourite, thank you very much. It looks a little less cartoonish on Geno’s face, but it’s a look Sid knows nonetheless.

“Pretty dress,” he murmurs, moving forward. “Prettier Sid.”

It’s so unfair when he says things like that. She never knows how to respond, except to blush and stammer. “You...look really good, too.”

Geno opens his mouth to say something, and Sid feels a weird anticipation rise in her stomach. But before he can speak, Dani clears her throat from behind Sid, an NHL intern with their Team Sid jerseys peering over her shoulder.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Dani says, with the kind of smug look Sid hates when it’s directed at her and Geno, “but they need us.”

Sid bites back a sigh, but does her best to help Dani get the jersey over her head without ruining Carey or Tyler’s handiwork.

“Shame,” Geno comments, tugging at the jersey’s hem. “Covers dress.”

“It’s just for the filming,” the intern assures him like it’s a real concern - and not Geno being, well, Geno - before gesturing for Sid and Dani to follow her.

“I’ll try and get you for my team,” Sid promises him. “But you know I-”

“Need to get girls,” he finishes, with a dramatic pout. She retaliates with an exasperated noise and a punch to the arm that has his pout morphing immediately into a grin. Sid can’t help the little burst of laughter that escapes.

“Go, go,” he says, waving her away. “Will be fine.”

She should. The intern looks impatient. But she bites her lip, not quite ready to pull out of his orbit or away from the warm feeling in her stomach. She hears the noise Dani makes too, registers the amusement in it, but in an absent, foggy way.

“Sid,” Geno says with a little chuckle, leaning in to nudge at her. “Captain duties.”

“Yeah, I know, I-”

But his eyes are so warm and his smile curls up in the way it does when he’s genuinely happy to be hanging around her and she just…

He chuckles and leans in. Sid’s breath catches despite herself, and her eyes flutter closed. She can feel the span of his hand, warm on her hip right before he presses his mouth to her left cheek. “Go. Talk later.”

Sid blinks her eyes open, “Yeah. Okay.” She turns to Dani and the intern, impatience gone and all starry-eyed. “Don’t say anything,” she warns Dani as they walk away.

Dani raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I won’t. Marcia, on the other hand…”

She groans. Marcia never lets anything go. Sure enough, her phone vibrates cheerfully with a message.

_Jesus Sid. Are you sure you’re not trying to send that man into an early grave? Put those heart eyes away before he explodes._

Dani peers over her shoulder. “Well, she’s not wrong.”

“I don’t know what-” she begins, only to be quelled by an arch look.

“Marcia’s right. Don’t start something you have no intention of finishing.”

Intention is never the problem. Not when it comes to Geno. The story of their relationship is how unintentional their moments are; simply an expression of the codependent gravity that pulls them together whenever they’re in close proximity. Which explains why, when they’re out a few days later taking in the Nashville atmosphere, he circles back to her time and time again, finding her in the crowd for five minutes here, ten minutes there. They dance, they talk, he swings his arm around her shoulder and she cuddles into his side.

So there’s a sort of inevitability to the way they end up pressed up against a wall, breathless and laughing. Geno’s drunker than she is, but she’s not sure it’s by much. He holds his liquor well.

Their laughter dies down, leaving them both panting and Geno’s eyes tracing her face. His hand comes up to stroke along her hairline, tucking her curls behind her ear with gentle fingers. Her breath catches because he’s so close and she knows that look on his face. She knows what’s supposed to come next.

“Geno,” she breathes, and it’s barely loud enough to be heard over the pounding music. Her palm presses gently on his chest, keeping him back, despite how easily she knows she’d give in if he pushed.

“Sid.”

Her entire body trembles a little. He says her name with awe and reverence and she wants, there’s no doubt about that. She wants so, so badly. “Are we sure?”

He deflates. There’s no confidence in him now, and it’s terrifying to see. “G-!”

Then he’s laughing into her shoulder, though it definitely does not sound amused. He sighs into the skin of her neck and lifts his head again. Her gentle giant. “If have to ask, then not ready.”

Her heart stutters. “You know that’s not-”

“Sid. Okay.”

Except it’s not. It’s really, really not. It’s not supposed to be like this. She’s not supposed to waver, or debate or worry. She knows he’s there with her, every step of the way. There are no doubts in him about how well they match or how good they can be together.

“Sid. Любимая моя.”

She goes when he gets a hand behind her neck and pulls her into his chest. She isn’t even fully aware that she’s breathing heavy until she clues into the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. She curls into him tighter, hands gripping the edge of his sweaty shirt. He’s humming, she can feel it in his chest and it kind of makes her want to cry.

He is everything to her. He knows it, she knows it. All that’s left is for her to take that chance, to make that leap. He won’t do it without her right up alongside him.

And she can’t.

She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to.

But she’s also not sure she’ll ever be ready to let him go.

The world goes a bit blurry around the edges and she finds herself stumbling from the bar, past a red-faced McDavid by the door and out into the Nashville night. Her phone’s in her hand a beat later, the number more than memorized, but also a quick speed dial away.

“It is late as fuck here, Sidney, and you should be out _having fun_.”

“I almost kissed Geno.”

There’s a fumbling noise and Sid waits, not at all patiently, for Taylor to grip the phone again. “You did _what?_ ”

“Nothing,” she retorts. “Technically, I haven’t done anything.”

“I heard the words ‘Geno’ and ‘kiss’ in the same sentence. I should be sleeping so you’d better not hold out on me.”

“I…almost.”

“And then what, the apocalypse happened? Someone walked by with the Cup? You lost your goddamn mind?”

“When did your language get so bad?”

“I’m going to murder you. Sister or not. I swear.”

Sid blows out a breath and lifts her free hand to press against her forehead. “Taylor, we can’t.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“It wasn’t the right moment,” she insists. “He knew it and so did I, even if I was the one who initiated it.”

Taylor sighs. “Why wasn’t it the right moment, Sid? Because you and I...and Geno...and hell, the rest of the world, knows that that excuse doesn’t hold much water anymore.”

Sid thinks about how his face just _fell_ and how much it shows that Geno’s ready. He’s been ready, and just been waiting for her to catch up. “Because I’m the one who has questions. _I’m_ the one who’s waiting for the right moment.”

“Not about Geno though,” Taylor counters stubbornly. “Any questions you have don’t relate to him at all. So what are you waiting for? Another Cup?”

“I...I don’t know.”

“Sid.” She can all but see the frustrated expression on her sister’s face, the scrunched up nose and the pursed lips. “If you’re waiting for the perfect moment, you’ll be waiting forever.”

It’s not like that advice is new. Marcia and Dani have told her the same thing, over and over. Still, this time feels like a punch to the gut, a different kind of raw against the dismal season. Nothing's going right, not even her and Geno. As Sid digests that, the door swings open and Marcia steps out.

“Sid! Come on, we’re doing shots…” She trails off, her expression changing as she takes Sid in. _Taylor?_ She mouths.

“Is that Marcia?” Taylor demands. “Hand her the phone.”

Marcia takes the phone without comment, her expression flickering from exasperation to amusement to understanding as she listens. “Got it, Lil’ Croz. Don’t worry, you know I have it covered.” She hands it back over. “Say goodnight, Sid. Then we’re going line dancing.”

“ _What_ ,” she squawks.

“I’m sure there’s some honky-tonk bar out there where some old dude is shouting out the instructions and we can watch people make asses of themselves, ourselves included. Barring that, Steph will teach us.”

“Taylor, what-” she all but bellows into the phone.

“You need a distraction. I’ve provided a distraction. Now, go and have fun, okay?”

She looks from the phone to Marcia, whose arms are folded and her eyebrow arched, expectant. It’s not quite her “do or die” face, but it’s close, and Sid knows there’s going to be no backing down on that front, especially if Taylor was the one to hand down the order. “Yeah, okay.”

“We’ll talk again soon. I love you, Sid.”

“Love you too, Taylor.”

She does end up having fun. It’s just the women (minus Jack, who has disappeared to who knows where), dancing and having fun in Nashville. There is, as Marcia predicted, a man reciting all the steps into a microphone. Steph is more than happy to micromanage all of them, though she does disappear at one point to perform a truly spectacular two-step with mic guy. Sid is so happy and exhausted at the end of the night that when Dani pours her back into bed, she sinks right into sleep, undisturbed by dreams.

 

Still, there’s an elephant in the room that needs to be discussed. She corners Geno on the plane back to Pittsburgh. “Geno.”

He looks a little worse for wear - which is code for hungover because after ten years and a Cup she knows what hungover looks like on Evgeni Malkin - but he smiles at her nonetheless. Because Geno will always smile at her.

“Hey.”

He hums a little and reaches out. Sid laughs and lets him take her hand. She wants the touch, wants _to_ touch; she wants to run her hand through his hair and rub his back. She doesn’t, of course. She has better self control than that. But she thinks about it.  

“Listen.” He blinks up at her and Sid takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, eh? For this weekend.”

Geno’s brow knits together. “Sorry?”

“For yesterday,” she tries to clarify, squeezing his hand. “At the bar. I shouldn’t have-”

He interrupts her with a grunt, his face morphing into one of his more ferocious frowns. “No.”

Sid feels her heart drop into her stomach. She’d known it was coming. He’s entitled to his anger for all the times they’ve played this game, all the pushing and pulling. But when she tries to pull away, maybe go lick her wounds beside Jen, who won’t ask questions but will probably judge, Geno grips her tighter and yanks. She clamps her jaw against the yelp that climbs her throat and tries not to go sprawling across his lap.

“Nothing to be sorry,” he says, manhandling her into the seat with an ease that annoys Sid a little - she should not be so easily moved, even by Geno. “Everything fine.”

“It’s not fine,” she mumbles into his shoulder. She’s pretty sure the roles should be reversed here, given she’s not the one with the hangover, but Geno makes a disgruntled noise every time she moves, so Sid resigns herself to the way she’s pressed into his side, the way he turns her head into his shoulder. “I do this every time.”

“Is okay.”

“How?” she asks helplessly. “How is this okay? I can’t even make up my mind.”

“Simple. Is not easy,” Geno responds. “Is big scary thing for you. You take longer when big and scary.”

“It’s _you_ ,” Sid answers. “I don’t know why I keep waiting. You’re not scary.”

“Sid,” he says, and there’s a bit of a whine in his voice. “Two options: you ready, you not ready. This time, you not ready. Changes nothing.”

Sid huffs. “How are you still here? Even Taylor can’t believe you’ve stuck around this long.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and finally, curious, Sid raises her head. His answer is all over his face, in the relaxed line of his shoulders and the curve of his mouth. “Still here because of you. Easy, because it’s you.”

There’s  finality and a sense of gravitas to his words that settles her more than any logical argument could.

“You make up mind. I be here when you do.”

It’s not perfect - there’s still an odd churning in her stomach - but she trusts Geno. She’s always trusted Geno. She can trust him with this. She curls into him a little tighter, selfish in wanting him close when she should give them both space and reorient themselves on the way back to the Penguins and to hockey. There should be distance from how close they came this weekend, but she just can’t do it. She can’t, and the strength of his arm wrapped around her back shows that he doesn’t want to let her, either.

She’ll take this, she thinks. Apology and comfort and reassurance that they’re okay.

Sid very carefully doesn’t think about how much of her isn’t as okay with that as she wishes.

 

The thing is, Sid’s The First, but she’s not a pioneer. Not by a long shot. That goes to Dani, who balances hockey and family with an avant garde style that always turns heads. That goes to Marcia, who paved the way for female defenders with the same brazen attitude she prides herself on now. That goes to Ryan, who’s getting married in five months to not one, but two of her teammates.

Sid… Sid just plays hockey.

“‘Just plays hockey.’ Why are you like this?” Taylor rants, put upon. “Is this about your numbers again? Is Flower letting you read your press? We have a goalie pact.”

Sid can feel the smile all but splitting her face in two. It always feels that way with Taylor on the other side of the table, here and in person to give her the shit she normally only gets over the phone. “It just feels good.”

“You’re winning. Of course it feels good.”

“It’s actually working,” Sid emphasizes because it’s different. It’s been different since Sully, since the culture in the locker room had shifted. The kids are playing well, Flower’s his usual impenetrable wall…

… and she and Geno are just like they’ve always been.

Sid’s happy. She is. She likes the status quo, and it’s definitely preferable to any awkwardness. They have hockey to win and this streak, the way they’re finally winning more games than they’re losing is starting to make Sid think, _maybe_.

Maybe they’re not that far

Maybe they won’t be out.

And sometimes, the very few times she allows herself to have beyond average expectations, she thinks: _we could win it all_.

Their momentum is changing, slowly but surely. They’re winning more, bit by bit, and there’s no one thing that accounts for that. Sure, all the trades and shuffles are starting to make sense as people click together in ways that push them ever forwards.

Sheary, for one, is a hell of a surprise. She knows Kuni took him aside at the beginning for The Talk, as all her newbie wingers do. It’s half an introduction to her quirks and half pep talk. Perhaps pep talk is the wrong word for it, but she knows it’s always something along the lines of not spending all their focus on trying to keep up with her, but to trust that she knows the play and will get the puck to them and so forth.

It’s simple in theory, but Sid knows that there are times when she’s just as difficult to play _with_ as _against_. Maybe moreso because she’s demanding, both as a linemate and a captain. She’ll talk a point to death and hammer it home because games are won through communication. She’s always believed that, and things just work better when people listen to her.

And to Sully, who is slowly becoming an anchor in the way Dan was. He says the right things and has a knack for putting people together in a way that simply works. There’s a give and take between them, one where he listens to what she has to say and takes that into account. He’s respectful, which earns him hers. The rest of the team follows.

They keep winning.

She’s climbing the points charts again, she’s _contributing,_ and the Penguins are no longer the League’s joke of a team with too many unproductive superstars. As she looks around the locker room, at Flower and Tanger as they get ready to face the Capitals, at the spot that should be Duper’s, but now has Shearsy shoving Horny as they circle around the logo in the middle of the room, she can’t feel the tension that had been there in November or December.

Just certainty.

They start filing out, loud and obnoxious, shoving Geno where he stands at the door waiting for the team; waiting for her.

He grins at her, wide from behind the visor. “Ready?”

Sid knows everything settles just then, that her face takes on that determined look that has scared more than a few rookies. Geno just beams, wide and thrilled, maybe a little sharp around the edges.

“Let’s win.”

 

She’s only just finishing breakfast when her phone buzzes. _off day sid. we find dress for oiler wedding._

Sid groans just thinking about it, only mildly regretting the fact that she promised Geno he could help her pick out what she’s going to wear. It’s not like the experience would be any less painful with someone else, from Dani to Taylor to Vero because she and shopping simply don’t get along. Tyler tried to talk her into this personal stylist thing where they actually send you the clothes but at the end of the day she just doesn’t care enough and they ended up sitting unopened in the box for months until Vero unpacked them and stuck them in her closet. If she could live in sweats she absolutely would.

 _Do we have to?_ she types back.

As if in answer, her doorbell rings. Trust Geno to ambush her this way. He’s completely unfazed by her scowl as the door swings open. “Ready?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know that she would rather read mean tweets for Pens TV than set foot in anything resembling a mall.

“Do we have to?” she repeats. “We can just look online, order a few sizes or something-”

Geno snorts. “Little Crosby say you try that. Quicker this way, Sid. Pick nice store, already call ahead.”

“You didn’t shut it down, did you?” Dani did that once, a long time ago, thinking that having the store to themselves would be less pressure. The thought is nice, but Sid doesn’t understand it for her. For the prime minister, or a major movie star, sure, but not her. She really hates shopping, so why shut down an entire store and deprive someone who actually likes having that experience?

He pulls open the door to the hall closet, rummaging around for a pair of shoes. “Already know, Sid. Store just ready for us, not closed.” His voice is muffled but he emerges holding her favorite pair of sneakers. “Come on. Sooner we go, sooner we finish, yes?”

True to his word, there is already a pile of dresses just waiting to be tried on. Geno’s assistant is a tiny, cheerful woman named Tana who assures them that she’s nearby if they need her, either to grab more dresses or deliver her opinion.

Then the fashion show begins, and Geno turns into one of the judges from Project Runway.

“Too short.”

“Too tight.”

“What...cloth. Fabric? Wrong.”

“Color not good for Sid.”

Each rejection leaves her with mounting frustration and amusement. Frustration because all she’s doing is wearing dresses, amusement because Geno’s incredibly strong opinions are just funny. It’s amazing that he and Dani have never done this together, but then again that’s probably a good thing. Sid’s not sure she’d survive that.

“Sid look uncomfortable,” he notices when she steps out in yet another dress.

“I’m always uncomfortable in dresses,” she shoots back.

His eyebrow goes up and he stands, approaching the little platform in front of the mirrors where she’s standing. “Not if right dress. Was okay at All Star Game, NHL awards.”

She just shrugs, her hands sliding over the material of the skirt. How can she explain that the entire experience is uncomfortable, even if she ends up liking the end product? It’s just not worth the hassle.

“Is it the length?” Tana suggests, having put away the latest round of rejects. “All of the dresses so far have been knee or tea-length. Would you prefer a maxi dress?”

Geno brightens. “Yes! Long dress, no sleeves. Sid like to show arms.”

“Because I don’t understand why everyone’s obsessed with my ass,” she mutters mutinously.

Tana laughs, but there’s nothing mean about it. “My family is South African, so we watch a lot of rugby and we very much appreciate a nice arse. I’m sure yours is lovely, but I’ll make sure to find the perfect dress to show off your arms.” She disappears into Sid’s dressing room and emerges with all the shorter dresses. “Now, go try what’s there and I’ll hunt up some more.”

“Simple,” Geno tells Tana emphatically. “No ruffles.”

“We should try rugby sometime,” Sid says contemplatively, automatically turning so that Geno can get the zipper. “We could easily lift someone like Bones when they do that thing, you know? When they throw the ball back in?”

“Touch rugby only.” He propels her back inside the room, his hands warm on her shoulders. “Not need anyone hurt.”

“Please,” she laughs. “You and Horny would be the first to start tackling people.”

“Sid lie!”

Tana is right: the longer dresses are much better. She and Geno develop some type of mind meld in that they somehow suss out how she feels about a dress before she even gets onto the platform.

“No patterns either, I think.”

“Yes, just color for Sid.”

“Do any of these dresses have pockets?” Sid ventures.

Tana claps her hands. “Oh! Try the navy blue one, I think you’ll like it.”

She’s right: the moment she puts on the dress there’s just something about it. The skirt doesn’t hug her uncomfortably, it just falls straight to the floor from her waist. When she checks the skirt there are indeed pockets and that just clinches it for her. “Yeah, I actually like this one,” she announces, stepping out.

“Oh, wonderful!” Tana exclaims.

Geno doesn’t say anything, but then again, he doesn’t have to. It’s there in the way everything just seems to fall away into that indescribable kind of moment that’s perfect because it’s just them. She has to wonder if a comet feels this way as it hurtles towards a star, that sense of absolute inevitability.

She turns to Tana with a smile. “We’ll take it.”

 

Sid is superstitious. She always has been. Hell, she’s famous for it. So when Flower, who has single-handedly kept them in games, worked his ass off when Sid came back from the All-Star game and said they were going to win it all, gets hit and goes down, her first unfortunate reaction is _of course._

There’s the other shoe dropping.

It’s only a split second of a reaction, because her next emotions are anger and concern, all of the emotions that come when she’s watching the replay on the jumbotron, aware that this isn’t just a normal injury. She’d been out for eighteen months, she knows what a concussion looks like.

There’s a lot of wind that goes out of her sails, even as she plays out the rest of the game. It’s not anger that has her throwing her gear around. It’s worry and frustration. Worry, because it’s _Flower_ and assuming it is a concussion because he hadn’t come back and she hasn’t seen him in the locker room, she’s not blind nor stupid. They’re… a little fucked. Neither of the rookies has playoff experience, let alone enough regular season experience against the Metro division…

They’re not _Flower_.

“Hey,” Tanger breaks her out of her thoughts, drawing her attention. “He’s fine.”

He’s not, is what she wants to say. She knows what it feels like, the frustration and despair because there isn’t a timeline for this stuff. It’s a _concussion_.

“We’re facing the Rangers,” she says. Well, spits is more like it.

“So?” he replies, eyes glittering because Tanger loves nothing more than playoff hockey. He looks around at the locker room. “We’re hungry.”

“So is everyone else,” she snaps and heads for the shower.

It’s a quick one, enough to rinse the sweat off and because she has to cool down, she knows that, but she has to see Flower first. She knocks gently before she steps into the room, biting her cheek against the sound that wants to escape when her eyes have to adjust to the careful darkness. Flower is there, of course, his eyes closed.

“Just got my bell rung,” he comments and while she suspects he knows it’s a teammate, she knows he isn’t magical enough to know which one. “Gonna be fine.”

She walks closer, her Crocs silent on the floor. “You didn’t pass protocol.”

His eyes flutter open like he wasn’t expecting her. “Sid.”

She reaches out and he lets her grasp at his hand, like he knows this is for her. He probably does. He’s always had a unique way of understanding her. “It’s not mild.”

“No,” he agrees truthfully and lets out a gusty noise that is half sigh, half groan. “Is this how it felt for you?”

“Everything hurt.” She snorts softly. “I was dizzy lying down.”

Flower hums. “More mild than that then.”

“But no playoffs.”

“No playoffs,” he scoffs and releases a long string of French profanity.

“Flower,” Sid says sternly, because everyone knows she takes concussions seriously. “No playoffs. Promise me.”

His eyes are glittering, but not glazed. “There are still two weeks. It’s mild.”

“If they don’t clear you, if they even _suggest_ you shouldn’t play-”

“Sid.” He grips her hand. “It’s okay. Everything is okay.”

“You have a _concussion,_ Flower, we need you-”

“Sidney.”

It pulls her up short when she’d been perilously close to toppling into panic. “They’re babies.”

“Hey.” He shakes their hands gently. “You’ve got this, eh? You and the guys in that room.”

“You’ve held us together.”

“No,” he argues, and takes a deep breath. “I could get traded tomorrow and you’d still do this.” He glares at her when she opens her mouth to protest. “You’d still be here and I think the team could still do it. I don’t hold the team together. _You_ do. You always have. So you’re going to go out there, with or without me, and you’re going to push this team exactly where they need so they can _do this_.”

Sid blows out a breath. Flower’s smile is wry, like he knows she doesn’t believe him. “Promise me,” she orders instead. They’ve already lost Duper. She can’t risk losing him too.

“I will not set foot on the ice until I’m cleared.”

It’s not what she wants, but she also knows it’s the best she’s going to get. So she squeezes his hand again before she steps out. Sully’s waiting for her and she stops short.

“How is he?”

Sid offers him a shrug that feels so helpless, more helpless than she’d like, especially in front of him. “Not like me.”

But Sully is, as he has been all season, too sharp. “Today.”

She lets her breath out slowly. “Maybe not tomorrow.”

Sully’s quiet for a moment before he tips his head to set them off down the hall. “I’ve already made the call down to Wilkes-Barre,” he tells her, because it’s also been his style to keep her in the loop on changes. He shakes his head. “It’s insane.”

It’s terrifying.

“You know this team,” he states after a moment and a few steps. “You know concussions. You know Flower. What are we looking at?”

“I don’t know.” And that’s what’s frustrating, that it’s entirely possible they’re going to get swept out of the first round, that everything they’ve done is going to be sent to hell because of one shot; right when Sid had started to really believe they might have a legitimate chance at the Cup.

Sully nods. Then, almost tentatively, as if there isn’t a less than confident bone in his body. “Will he be able to play?”

“No.” Sid’s immoveable on it, the single word short and sharp. She swears quickly. “He _can’t_.”

Sully raises his hands, placating. “Playoffs,” he reminds her gently. “You know-”

“ _No._ ”

There are a few beats and a few more steps taken in silence, before Sully nods. It’s more resignation than frustration, Sid thinks. “I guess I have a lot of late nights ahead of me.”

Figuring out how they’re going to make it, how they’re going to manage to get through the playoffs with rookie goddamn goalkeepers. Sid chews on her lip until they make it back to the locker room. She pauses there and faces him.

“I’m glad it’s you,” she confesses. She trusts him.

Sully nods once, sure, then claps her on the shoulder. “New York. Two days.” His eyes are serious and sure, a determination she needs right now and a strength she isn’t sure she has. “Let’s get it done.”

The problem is, Sid still has time to wallow. She still has time to think and puzzle and worry about what ifs and maybes and when she’s left alone a little too long things can get pretty ugly.

The Skype call should probably be less of a surprise than it is. It’s Dani, who has some sixth sense about when she needs to step in because whenever Sid’s feeling down, Dani’s usually the first one who calls. She sighs and presses the green phone button.

Sure enough, Dani takes one look at her and scowls faintly. “Stop.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, Sid, it doesn’t suit you,” Marcia comments, popping up in another window. Great, a group chat. “You have that little line between your eyebrows, it means you’ve been stewing.”

She huffs out a little breath. Most of the time she’s amazed and grateful for how well these two women know her, but other times it can be annoying. They have a tendency to gang up on her. “It’s Flower. He’s out.”

Marcia’s eyebrows go up. “Oh, does that mean we get a crack at your baby goalies? Thanks Sid.”

“ _Marcia_ ,” Dani snaps.

“Calm down, I’m not making light of his injury or anything. It sucks, Sid. But it’s not like losing him makes your team any less of a contender. I mean hell, I’m still going to have to defend against your ugly mug during this series, aren’t I? Not to mention Malkin or Kessel.”

Sid makes a few indignant noises and Dani facepalms. “Perhaps what Marcia is trying to say is that your team’s wins or losses are not dependent on Fleury being healthy.” She raises her head and looks straight into the camera. “Nor is it dependent on you, despite what you’re no doubt thinking right now.”

They both have As. They both know what it’s like to have that burden of leadership set upon them. “But-”

Dani’s glare could melt ice. “Sid. _Älskling,_ I love you, but do not make me come out there.”

She doesn’t make idle threats and Sid knows it. She gulps and Marcia cackles. “You probably should Dani, because you know my solution would be to kidnap her and I don’t think they’ll like that. Your way is better.”

“Guys,” Sid begins.

“No. You listen to me right now, Sidney Crosby.” And because it’s Dani, she does. “We know pressure. You know that. This, what you’re doing right now? That is extra, and you don’t need it. You have a coach who by all accounts is fantastic. You have talented, hard-working teammates who won’t hesitate if you tell them to go out there and get it done.” She pauses for a moment and Sid can’t help the way she holds her breath, waiting to hear what comes next. “And then there’s you. No one works the way you do, no one sees or plays the game the same way you do. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“I feel like I should be offended, but I’m really not.” Marcia smiles, easy and carefree. “Dani’s right, of course. It’s going to be one hell of a series. We’re not going to take it easy on you and we sure as hell expect you to do the same.”

Dani’s still watching her so very carefully. “So. Do I need to come out there, Sid?”

“Only if you really want to,” Sid responds truthfully. She feels a little more settled now, the way she always does after talking to both of them. “Taylor would love the company.”

“Right, because _Taylor’s_ the one who needs all of us there, if necessary.” Marcia crosses her eyes at the camera. “You good, Sid?”

She takes a deep breath and thinks everything over. The tightness in her chest has loosened, replaced by the same sort of mounting anticipation she gets before a game. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Dani nods, certain. “Damn right you are.”

Marcia’s right. She and the Rangers don’t make the first round easy, but in a stunning turn of events, between Zatkoff and Muzz, they manage to actually do it. They take the series in five games and then, by magic, take the Capitals too.

Then comes Tampa. Tampa in the Conference Finals and they are _losing_.

It keeps her up at night. Late at night, bouncing and pacing across her hotel room and it shouldn’t. It needs to stop because god, god, she needs to sleep. But it won’t stop, her brain is whirling, trying to put pieces together that just aren’t there and…

She really isn’t sure how she gets to his door. She should know, of course, should probably have just gone to him in the first place, when the unease started to settle in. Instead, it’s way too late - or too damn early, either way he’ll be upset. But she knocks anyway. A few times, because she knows Geno sleeps like the dead, but that he’ll get up for her.

Sure enough, there are violent Russian mutterings that make her smile, just a little, before the door is wrenched open. “Wha- Sid?”

She’s just going to ask for his help. A quick talk. Just reassurance that they’ve done this before and they can do it again. That they know what they’re doing. Instead, what she blurts out breathlessly is: “We’re not going to do it.”

He sighs. “Sid. Early.”

“We can’t keep our heads in the game. We’re down 3-1, Geno. To _Tampa_.”

He groans but steps back and lets her in because he always does. Because she could go to Flower, she could go to Tanger, but she doesn’t. She goes to Geno.

“No,” she starts when he crawls back into bed, face down in the pillows. “Geno, we have to _talk_ about this. We have to be better.”

Geno grabs her hand and tugs, yanking her down beside him. When she starts to protest again, he rolls over onto his back, manhandling her until she’s sprawled inelegantly over his chest. “Breathe, Sid. Talk when more calm.”

His chest expands beneath her ear and Sid can’t help it - she matches her breathing to his, perfectly in sync. It’s their thing, one of their weird little things. It’s something he started doing even before they could really communicate in English.

It had been a really bad game against Detroit, one where their defense completely broke down and Flower stood on his head for the entire game, playing like a star despite every single goal that was scored against him. He kept them together since the rest of the team couldn’t seem to keep things together enough to even make a play for the net, let alone score.

Sid had nearly been in tears as she shouted the guys down, doing her level best to try and organize them into some semblance of a team. Geno had pulled her into one of the empty trainer’s offices during the second intermission. He’d stared at her, frustrated, clearly trying to search for the right words but finding none, before he reached out and pulled her into his arms.

“Geno, what-” she began. Geno was definitely a tactile kind of guy, but he’d never hugged her before.

“Breathe, Sid. With me.”

She pushed a little at him but he didn’t budge, though his grip loosened enough for her to know that if she really wanted to get away, he would let her. “I have to-”

He huffed, amused and a little exasperated. His brow furrowed as he searched for the words. “Sid okay, team okay.”

“I am okay,” she protested. “I need to go out there, we need to go out there and just-”

Long fingers circled one of her wrists, his fingertips pressing to her pulse point. “Fast. Come on, Sid. Try?”

She grumbled but complied, thinking that she would humor him. But there was something compelling about the steady in and out of his breaths, something she couldn’t help but follow, and soon enough he was patting her on the head. “Good, Sid. Go now.” He just laughed when she made a dissatisfied sound, directing them towards the door. “Breathing good, talk to team. Breathing bad, come to me.”

It hasn’t changed. Not then, not in any of the years since. If she doesn’t go to him he appears, arms strong around her shoulders, hand steady against the back of her neck.

“We not shit team.”

She makes an indignant noise. They’re a playoff team in the Eastern Conference finals. She knows they’re not a shit team. But they’re not going to _win_.

“Sully good. Rookies good.” The smile is audible in his voice to match the curve of his mouth against her temple. “Sid better than ever.”

Her hand hits his shoulder with a light thwack. “It’s not enough. It hasn’t been enough.” She knows what he’s saying, she _does_ . She always does. But this isn’t just two points in the regular season. These are the playoffs. This is the Eastern Conference final and while Sid knows that it’s been a bit of a dream run to the playoffs and one hell of a run _in_ the playoffs, it’s not enough.

It’s never enough. Not until she’s lifting that Cup. She’d been able to taste it when they’d all but steamrolled over New York, felt her arms ache with it when they’d beat Washington.

This feels like failure.

“Sid.” His fingers slip beneath her chin, tilting her head so he can meet her eyes. His are serious. Sure. Sid swallows. “We know. You do, we follow. Is how it works. Always.”

 _We know what this means,_ he doesn’t say. _We know where this goes._

_We know how this ends._

Sid takes a deep breath, then releases it, slow and steady, his hand pressing solidly just above the curve of her ass.

“Yes. Good.”

Sid isn’t sure how long she stays there, just regulating her breathing, listening when he starts humming like he’d fall asleep if he didn’t. Finally, he drags his hand up her spine, anchoring it in her hair.

“We win.”

She hums in question.

“This is our year. I feel.”

She lifts her head, braces her chin on the back of her hand. “You’re always so sure.”

“Ten years ago, I leave Russia to play best hockey with best player.”

Sid feels the blush spread over her cheeks.

“Mario retired now, but-” He laughs as she makes an indignant noise, whacks at him. He keeps laughing as they wrestle, his tenacity against her density until he’s yanked their arms above their heads and tangled their legs together.

“Is easy, to be sure. I tell you always: here to play with you because you best. Because you win. Not change because playoffs. Not change because Tampa or because we behind. Still true, always true. Easy to believe when true.”

“Why can’t I be that sure?”

“Because you all drama,” he retorts, snickering as he gets her wrists in one huge hand. Sid knows she could pin him now, take back control, but then he says, “So sad, not just hand Cup away to great Sidney Crosby.”

“That’s not it,” she complains, aware she’s bright red. “I like hard work, I just-”

“Want Cup,” he responds with gentle agreement. “Prove second half of season is real.” He scratches gently at her scalp. “You not only one on team. You not only one on team who wants Cup. We down; is okay. We come back.”

Sid breathes out, shaky, unstable. “Because we all want it.”

Because they all have something to prove.

“We’re going to win,” she says. “We’re going to come back.”

“Now you get it.” He shifts beneath her. “We sleep now. Can’t beat Tampa snoring.”

“Says the man who could nap all day.” But she tries to push herself up anyway. Geno holds fast and clings tighter. “Geno.”

“Sleep here,” he murmurs, eyes already closing. “You go back, maybe you walk back and forth-”

“Pace,” she interrupts, even as she lets her body relax.

“Here, I know you sleep. Not be blamed for keeping you up all night.”

She laughs, but lets him maneuver her into a more comfortable position. She’ll let herself have this, take the comfort he’s offering because he’s right: she needs sleep if they’re going to win. It’s about hockey and winning.

And maybe a little bit about how invincible she feels with his warmth so close.

 

And then, they win it. They win the Cup and she picks up the Conn Smythe and it’s sharper than the best resolution of a television screen. She lifts the lightest thirty-five pounds she’s ever hoisted above her head and passes it off to a bashful Daley, utterly beaming.

It seems natural to slip through the crowd until she stands beside Geno, to watch Duper make his lap and then pass it off to Kessel who’s looking at the Cup like it’s something out of dreams. Sid understands the feeling.

She looks up at Geno helplessly, still breathing hard and sweaty and so, so incredibly absolutely _happy_. He beams back at her, nudging her shoulder and she feels it fill her, spill over.

“I love you.”

He doesn’t balk. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead he wraps her in the best kind of hug and tucks his own sweaty head down. “I love you, too,” he murmurs into her ear and she shivers despite the sweat and excitement.

This is it, she thinks. The proof that she’s still good enough, that she can still lead this team and captain this team and be the lodestone. She can be everything she wants to be.

She can be Geno’s.

He sees it in her face. It’s the only reason for why his elation turns to something surprised and breathless. “Sid?”

“We won,” she says again, and she probably sounds ridiculous and insane. She’s leaning into him, she knows she is and she can’t make herself stop. Her hand clenches in his jersey until her knuckles are white. She opens her mouth, not even totally sure of what’s about to come out. “Geno, I-”

“Oh captain my captain!” Flower crows and throws his arm over her shoulders. Sid feels her face collapse into a frown. He’s interrupting The Moment, their moment, the moment she can feel is _right_.

“If you don’t want your first kiss to be on loop on national television all summer, knock it off,” he tells her in a low voice, right in her ear. It’s the proverbial bucket of cold water. Her hand goes slack in Geno’s jersey and she swallows around the gross lump in her throat.

“Flower.” Even Sid jumps. That’s a genuine growl. “You ruin.”

Flower’s gaze is steady. “I think Sportsnet is looking for someone to interview.”

Sid lets her eyes close and takes half a beat to gather herself. “I’ll-”

Geno’s already skating away, his frown melting helplessly away in the face of the elation around him.

“I am sorry.” Flower shrugs, though he doesn’t sound contrite at all. It’s probably because he didn’t place a bet on today.

“No,” Sid says on a sigh, turning into him to hide the conversation in a hug that could easily be congratulatory. “You’re right.”

The Moment’s broken anyway.

But of course, they’re both stubborn and later that night, they find each other in the crowd of their teammates, stinking of sweat and now alcohol as the party continues to rage. Things are more than a little bit blurry as she sighs and reaches for him, letting him tangle their fingers together.

“Real yet?” he asks, then laughs when she hums and swipes at the flyaways that have long escaped from her braids. “You drunk.”

“I’m happy,” she retorts. “We won.”

“Everything. MVP Sid.”

She sighs and feels him squeeze her hand. She sways into him, wrinkling her nose because they really smell fucking awful.

“Sid.” Geno tucks his hand under her chin. His chest rises and falls with a sharp breath. His eyes are so intense when she opens hers and all she can think is _yes_.

But it isn’t her mouth he takes, not even close. Instead, he presses his lips to her forehead. She’s happy and floating, and disconnected enough that she doesn’t stop herself from making an unhappy noise. “Geno.”

“Sid,” he repeats, into her forehead this time, then leans in to kiss her cheek. “We won. We happy, yes?”

“Yes,” she agrees emphatically.

“So happy. Blind happy.”

She frowns, feels the way his thumb brushes against the wrinkles that form on her brow.

“So happy. Make crazy choices.”

“Crazy - _Geno_. What do you think I’m going to do?”

He’s quiet for long enough that Sid feels her stomach drop to her feet. “You say love you.”

Her breath catches. “Yes.” Then, before he can ask, “I mean it. I meant it.”

“Yes,” he murmurs, the single word laden with so much meaning. “I’m love too.”

Sid’s breath shudders as she inhales. “But?”

“We just won. Everything. Feelings all…” He makes a vague fluttering motion with his hand. “Mixed up.”

She doesn’t understand. Why isn’t it happening? It should be now. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Does,” Geno argues gently. “Tomorrow, maybe different.”

“You know that’s not true. You know it won’t be.”

He brushes a thumb over her cheek, stopping her as she shakes her head. “Sid, when we say yes, want nothing but us. No Cup. No team. Just Sid. Just Geno.”

“We’re there,” she argues, pushing into his space. “It’s just us.”

“Us and team and media and Cup. And should be. Is exciting, all of this winning. Is thrill.” He offers her a smile that she thinks should be brighter. “Is not us.”

“Hockey _is_ us.”

“Hockey is part, but not always.” He darts a glance over her head, like he’s checking to make sure no one’s looking for them yet. “When I remember Cup, I want to remember this: team and laughing and all pride.” He strokes her cheek again, lets his hand slide down to her neck. “When it you and me, that’s all I’m want. Not win, not team. Not mixed up.”

Her eyes close. She wants to push it. She wants to tell him he’s wrong and they’re where they need to be, but he’s always respected her every request for time and space. Anything, everything. The least she can do is the same for him, even if she has a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Okay.”

He smiles, this little indulgent thing. “Just summer. Is easy. We do before.”

Her breath still shakes when she releases it and she leans her forehead on his chest. “I still mean it.”

“I’m know. Me too, for long time.”

Sid bites her lip hard against the stupid over emotional response that climbs her throat:

_For always._

 

The summer races by, faster than Sid’s used to. Between the Cup, shooting some more Tim Horton’s commercials with Nate, and then her training, hockey school comes faster than it has any other year. The first ones to arrive in Cole Harbour are Dani and Marcia. That’s how it’s been, year after year, even before Sid started her hockey school, a tiny bit of consistency that Sid can appreciate in the blur of July and August.

“Look, my favorite Crosby!” Marcia crows, lifting a laughing Taylor off her feet. “Still hanging around this loser, eh?”

Taylor winks while Sid rolls her eyes and hugs Dani. “You know it!” She’s never had that moment that people tend to have when they meet Marcia for the first time, where they look at her a little askance, a little wary. Sometimes it takes multiple meetings to realize that’s just how she is and that it’s just better to go along with it. Hell, it took Sid three times. Not so with Taylor. She accepted Marcia right off the bat and Sid knows how much it means to the other woman. If it means they gang up on her from time to time, well. At least she has Dani.

“How many do we have this year?” Dani asks as they make their way to the car. No one bothers them, though there are always a few excited whispers and looks.

“87 kids,” Taylor replies with a sly glance Sid’s way.

Marcia groans. “I knew you were expanding this year, but really Sid?”

She shrugs. “We have a lot of coaches this year, too.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Pricey, Gally, Segs, Jordie, Steph, Mal, Latts, Jack, plus Nate.”

Taylor claps her hands. “I can’t _wait_ to meet Jack.”

“So young and angry.” Marcia’s grinning. “I love it.”

“Not angry,” Dani corrects. “Frustrated. She has something to prove and I think she’s done it very well. She deserved the Calder.” Which launches them into an entire discussion of the Calder candidates and who really deserved the win.

Sid was there. She remembers looking out into the crowd and seeing the brief moment of Jack’s shock followed by fury, all of which had been quickly masked. But then, she also remembers seeing the way McDavid looked at her, couldn’t look away from her, really, and the fact that the two left the after-party hand in hand. There are certainly a number of complicated feelings there - feelings that Sid definitely doesn’t feel equipped to unpack, though she has a sinking suspicion that they’re going to boil over sooner rather than later.

“-is he a great player? Of course he is, but he was out for a good chunk of the season whereas Jack and that defenseman in Philly were playing the entire time. I think they should have had that advantage,” Marcia is arguing. “And yes, I know they’ve been calling him The Next One but I think we all know someone who could beat him straight up, every time.”

“It’s not a contest,” Sid cuts in. McDavid’s nice. The memory of him stuttering and calling her, ‘Ms. Crosby,’ still makes her smile.

“No, but you could still take him,” Taylor says cheerfully.

Everyone looks at her expectantly. Finally, she rolls her eyes and relents. “Well, of course.” McDavid is young, talented, and a hard worker, but there’s something to be said about age and experience, though she’ll never admit that to anyone but these women.

Taylor laughs gleefully. “Come on, let’s get back to the house. The next wave of people won’t arrive for another few hours.”

Once everyone has arrived though, it’s pure chaos. Taylor has her own room at home, of course, but during camp she stays with Sid, so they’re bunking together. Marcia, Dani, and Jordie take one of the spare rooms while Carey, Mal, and Brenda take the other. The rest are in the basement. Honestly, this many people should feel noisy and overwhelming, and maybe she’ll have to escape a few times to clear her head over the course of the next few days, but really she just basks in it.

First things first - she needs to hide the candy Brenda’s surely brought in her suitcase. The last thing they need is that woman on a sugar high, surrounded by children.

 

Taylor was right. There are eighty-seven kids at hockey school this year, almost evenly split between boys and girls, from seven different countries as opposed to last year’s six. Three are from China, and she makes a mental note to invite Clarissa Pu as one of the coaches next time.

It’s a lot of kids - and coaches, for that matter, to cram onto one sheet of ice but she’s adamant that everyone stays together for this. There’s enough room to have at least six different sets of drills going on, with the different groups rotating between the drills.

“Skate, skate, skate, shoot - aw, nice attempt Brie!” she calls. “Don’t overthink your shot, just go for the one that feels best, okay?”

“Thanks Sid,” comes the muffled reply from beneath the helmet. The awe and hero-worship are mostly gone, with it being the second day. Kids are usually better about that kind of thing anyway, especially when they’re put to work and having fun.

Carey is leaning against the nearby goal, phone in hand as she coaches the kid fending off pucks. From the grin on her face, she’s probably FaceTiming PK. “Look at how great Luis is doing, he’s an awesome goalie,” Sid can hear her saying.

“That’s because he has the best coach! Wait, Mal isn’t nearby, is she?” Carey snickers while Luis positively _glows_.

She feels a bit of a pang, right in her stomach. She’s never asked Geno to help with hockey school. Summer is his time back home and she would never want to infringe on that. Still, it would be great to have him here, gently teasing the kids and helping them with their drills.

Sid shakes herself out of it and notices Steph watching her. She raises a questioning eyebrow and Sid just shrugs a little bit, helpless.

And that’s the end of it - at least, that’s what she thinks until Steph corners her by the cooler later on. “Is everything all right, Sid?” she asks earnestly. “You made a pretty sad face earlier, when Pricey was talking to PK.”

“I - no, well that’s - I just…”

Steph takes a step forward, lowering her voice. “Is it Malkin?”

And if that had come from anyone else (except Taylor) Sid would probably be able to deflect, but it’s _Steph._ She’s so kind and genuine that it’s very, very hard to say no to her, as Sid has discovered several times.

This time is no different. “I just...well, after we won the Cup we kind of talked and-”

Steph’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god. _Oh my god Sid_ , are you telling me that your fairytale actually came true?”

And...wow. There’s a lot to unpack in that statement, from Steph’s wording to the slight wistfulness in her voice. Does she need to have a chat with Webs about the situation down in Nashville? “No. Not really?” The story comes out in a tumbled rush because they have a new round of drills coming up but she can’t help the relief in being able to tell someone other than Taylor.

Steph’s eyes are sympathetic. “Oh Sid,” she begins, reaching forward to hug her. Sid goes stiff out of reflex and has to remind herself to relax.

“It looks like the ball’s in your court, then.”

Sid glances away because… it’s not what she wants to hear. She sucks at having the ball in her court. Puck on her stick, she’d know what to do with, but this? Relationships? Even with Geno. Hell, it’s one of the top five things she gets chirped about: Sidney Crosby, always and forever married to hockey and nothing else.

“I’m the one that said it. And I meant it. He’s the one that decided-”

“I know,” Steph interrupts gently. “You said it and you meant it, and he knows that too, I’m sure. It’s just…” She shrugs, smiling ruefully. “Sometimes you just need the right moment. Sometimes that moment isn’t the first one, or even the second. You’ll know it when it comes, Sid. It’s you and Malkin. There’s no other ending, you know?”

Before Sid can argue - and argue she could, because for one thing, she is no star-crossed lover and for another, if it were true, wouldn’t they be there by now? It’s been ten freaking years already  - Brenda taps against the glass, and startles them both. “We’re ready for you Sid!” she calls, bouncing up and down.

“I’m coming!” She turns and smiles, hoping it’s not too wobbly. Steph’s expression says she doesn’t quite succeed. “I- Thanks for listening. Really. I guess I’ll just...wait for that moment.”

“Hopefully not too long,” is the cheerful reply as they head back into the ice. “I have money riding on this, you know.” She giggles and takes off, leaving Sid spluttering.

That damn bet. She’s going to kill Flower.

 

She has another surprise, for the kids and the women. The women have been teasing her all week, chirping her about her two days with the Cup and the parade - “a _parade_ Sid, you’d think you were the Prime Minister,” Marcia teases. But what they don’t know is that Sid has plans for hockey school too.

She sneaks the Cup in, meeting Gary the Cup Keeper outside the arena. It’s not an easy thing to hide, being thirty-five solid pounds and shiny. She tries to keep it low, under the boards, but there’s a hush that settles over the arena that says maybe she hadn’t been as successful as she’d thought.

Sure enough, when she glances up at the rink, the kids are already congregating around where she’ll step onto the ice. Though, to her amusement, no one’s standing all that close. Superstitions in hockey are long and deep, Sid knows.

“That’s real?” Vashti asks, a little awed.

“It is,” Sid replies. She can’t stop the proud smile from spreading over her face, not even with the way Taylor rolls her eyes.

“All right, line up everyone!” Dani calls. “Time for pictures with Sid and the Cup!”

She loves this time with the kids, taking the time to chat to each one for a little while, answering their questions and taking pictures. “It’s pretty cool, isn’t it, Tanino?” she asks as a boy - one of Steph’s defensemen - steps up and confidently takes his place beside the Cup.

“So cool,” he agrees, and Sid doesn’t miss the way he very carefully avoids directly touching the Cup. She bites her lip against the giggle that wants to escape.

“Going to win it one day?”

Tanino utterly beams at her. “You bet I am.”

After each photo, Nate and the other male coaches whisk the kids off for snack time, until it’s just Sid, the women, and Gary the Cup Keeper.

“Hello old friend,” Tyler croons at the Cup, running one finger along its shining surface. “We’ll see each other real soon, all right?”

Sid huffs out a laugh. “In your dreams.”

“You all suck,” Jack announces from her spot far, far away, practically pressed against the boards.

“Didn’t peg you for the superstitious type, Eichs,” Mike remarks, skating in close but not close enough to touch.

Jack rolls her eyes. “I’m not. Not about the normal everyday stuff, anyway. But _that?_ Come on, can any one of you, besides Sid and Segs, say you’ve actually touched it since you started playing in the league?”

“She’s not wrong,” Mal laughs. “Now come on, I think we all deserve some snacks, too.”

Sid watches them go and gives the Cup one last pat. “Goodbye.” _For now._

 

The day after camp is a lazy day, one spent hanging out by the lake and enjoying their time together before everyone peels off to their respective destinations. Tyler spends most of the day trying to convince Jack to jump in the lake, but she doesn’t budge. Dani and Carey periodically disappear into the house and come back bearing delicious food. The coolers are stocked with a seemingly endless supply of beer, and Sid blames that for what comes next, as the sun sinks down beyond the horizon.

“So I’ve heard of this thing called fire hockey,” Mike suggests, her eyes dancing. “Roll of toilet paper, chicken wire, lighter fluid. Hockey rules.”

“YES,” Brenda squeals, looking like all of her dreams have come true at once.

“ _No_ ,” Dani responds, just as emphatically. “We’re not starting a forest fire around Sid’s house.”

Mike pouts. “Who says we’re going to do that? We’ll just play in the driveway. Nothing can catch fire there, and everyone will wear pants and long sleeves, it’s fine.”

“I’m up for it,” Marcia announces, to absolutely no one’s surprise. “We can set the nets up in the driveway and it’ll be like road hockey.”

All eyes swing towards Sid and she shrugs. “It could be fun.”

“YES!” Mike crows, giving Brenda a high-five.

“As long as we play responsibly. Dani’s in charge of the fire extinguisher. Carey-”

“Is not playing, thanks,” she drawls from where she’s sprawled over a lounger. “I just got over a long injury. Don’t need to tempt fate for another one.”

Tyler grins and hands over her phone. “Then you get to document everything.”

Carey’s smile goes a little sharp. “On everyone’s phones?”

Mike scrambles for hers and all but throws it at Carey. “Yes, oh my god. I want everything.”

“Goalies choose?” Dani suggests. “Since you can’t be on the same team.”

It’s a surprisingly organized ‘draft’. Five to a team, a goalie and four skaters. Well, runners, Sid guesses, glancing over at Mike, Marcia and Brenda. She blinks. How the hell did Mal end up with all three of them plus her? Judging by the sly grin on Mal’s face, that was part of the plan.

“Rules?” Brenda asks once everyone’s changed and the goalies have donned their pads, twisting her stick in her hands.

“No hitting or checking, you’re already playing with _fire.”_ Dani already looks so done with everything and they haven’t even started yet. “If I see anything I don’t like, I’m pulling people out for one minute penalties. Does anyone have a problem with that?”

Some of the younger women shake their heads mutely because Dani in full-on Mother Mode is scary bordering on terrifying. Sid hides a smile behind her hand.

“Don’t worry, none of this will go on Instagram,” Carey remarks. “We’re supposed to be role models or something, right?”

Dani gives her the stink-eye.

“Wait!” Jordie breaks in. “The goalies need better fire protection than their pads.” She grabs Marcia and they disappear back into the garage, past Jack and Tyler as they drag out the nets and begin spraying them down with water. Steph and Mike are assembling the “pucks,” rolls of toilet paper in chicken wire cages. The smell of lighter fluid wafts towards Sid and her nose wrinkles.

A few minutes later they emerge, triumphant, bearing paddleboards mounted in some way Sid is resolutely not going to ask about to curling brooms. “Improvised shields,” Marcia announces proudly.

Mal and Taylor exchange looks, then shrug. “I’m all for not catching on fire.”

Dani mutters something under her breath, something that sounds like, “ _Then why are we doing this_.”

The sun sets and the game starts, full of chirps and no holds barred playing - even with flaming pucks. It takes a while to drop into the rhythm of it. There are a couple of squeals and screams as they try and remember they can’t corral the puck in their feet like usual, the way they have to use their sticks a little more carefully, and the contradiction that is protecting a literal fireball.

Which is why, when Jack takes a puck high off her stick, she releases the longest string of profanity Sid has ever heard from a hockey player and she’s played with guys like Horny and Tazer - who, Sid’s convinced, literally have no idea how not to swear on the ice. It’s vicious enough that the whole game pauses. Jack inspects her gloves for burn marks and there’s an audible sigh when she finds none.

“Hey, Eichs,” Brenda calls out, now that they’ve determined Jack is fine. “You kissing McJesus with that mouth?”

There’s a split second where Sid actually thinks Jack’s going to just shrug off the comment, but a moment later, Brenda’s on her ass. Jack doesn’t even wait for Dani to blow the whistle before she goes over to settle primly on the grass.

“Are you-! That’s two minutes!” Brenda exclaims as Tyler yanks her up. “Calculated and deliberate. Game misconduct!”

Dani looks on serenely. “Only if you want an instigator penalty.”

“Instigator! I started nothing, what kind of a-”

“We can make it unsportsmanlike conduct too,” Dani interrupts with an elegantly arched eyebrow. Brenda fumes her way back to the other side of the driveway, while Jack grins unrepentantly from her place next to Dani.

Taylor and Mal have to adjust as well, training themselves out of the instinct to cover the flaming pucks in order to protect them. Instead, they create an entirely new problem when they begin whacking the fireballs away with their shields and sticks, sending them high into the air.

“No sending pucks high, you want to set someone’s hair on fire?” Dani growls when Steph has to move quickly to keep a nearby flowerbed from going up in flames off a block from Taylor, who only shrugs.

“Goalie exception.”

Mal raises a hand. “Seconded.” Dani finally relents and play continues.

“-Sid! I swear to god, you and your ass, it needs its own goddamn postal code,” Tyler growls after a not so gentle check. Sid just smirks and passes to Marcia, who barrels down the driveway whooping.

 _Tweet._ Dani points beside her. “Latts! Are you trying to set _yourself_ on fire? Get over here.”

Mike pouts, but comes to stand beside her.

There’s a brief break when the first puck flames out and they scramble to light the second. Carey, smirking, holds a phone high. Sid frowns at the intro, it sounds familiar-

“ _She’s just a girl and she’s on fire,_ ” Alicia Keys croons. “ _Hotter than a fantasy, lonely like a highway-”_

Everyone cracks up.

They go through five pucks before they call it - injury-less, thank you very much, though Brenda and Mike give it their best shot - and Sid curls up in her bed, muscles pleasantly sore and a smile on her face. Even with Geno’s challenge in the back of her mind, it feels like an excellent end to camp and a better beginning of summer.

 

The Friday of the World Cup of Hockey, when all the round robin games are done and Sid knows she’ll be facing off against Geno again the next day, the news is… not at all what she anticipated. She’s heard some of the coverage, of course, the way they’ve been talking about Canada as if losing is not only fundamentally not an option, but implying there isn’t a team in the tournament who can defeat them. Sid gets it, they’re a beyond-stacked team.

But they aren’t the darlings of the World Cup and as she looks at the picture of Team North America celebrating Jack's hat trick, Sid feels something collapse off her shoulders. It’s a little weird to think no one’s talking about her and that no one’s talking about Team Canada - that somehow the people and the team are no longer The Story. If they’re not talking about the young darlings of the tournament, they’re talking about the utter collapse of Team USA.

They’re not talking about her.

She reads the article praising the play of McDavid and Auston, about how the future of Canadian and American hockey look very bright considering the team of young guns, and Sid feels herself sigh.

“Heavy sigh, Captain.”

Sid looks up at Carey, Tyler next to her, and shuffles things around on the table so the women can settle with her. “They’re not talking about us.”

“Huh?” Tyler asks, leaning over her elbow. “Oh! Yeah. But, you knew about the Young Guns.”

“Don’t call them that,” Carey chastises, but it’s mild and without reproach. Instead, Sid feels the goalie’s eyes on her. “What about the North American team.”

Sid swallows, then does it again. She’s not sure she can articulate this properly. “We’re about to go into the semi-finals against the team that’s been our national rival for…god, I don’t even know how long, and the news isn’t about that. The news is...well...it’s all about the kids.”

Tyler snorts. “How dramatic.” But the thing is, Sid’s known Tyler long enough that she also knows what she’s looking at. They’re a pair that doesn’t always see eye to eye, and sometimes Sid thinks Tyler actually believes Sid thinks she’s the problem child, but there’s an awareness in Tyler that Sid’s always appreciated. “What are you going to do with your newfound anonymity, Captain?”

Carey snorts. Sid ignores her.

“I-”

Tyler and Carey are silent, waiting, but there’s a knowledge in the air already, the low hanging fruit of Sid finally realizing that she can _take_.

“This game takes everything from you,” Carey says slowly, low. “You’re the one who has to _take back_.”

Sid startles, less because of the sentiment behind the words and more because it’s not exactly the quote she’d expected to survive her career. “Pricey-”

Carey laughs and reaches out, shining because of course she is. She’s glowing and in love because she’d been able to do the one thing Sid still hasn’t.

“It’s not that,” she begins, trying to arrange her thoughts. “Not really.” Being the First, as much as she hates the moniker, has taught her a lot. The constant pressure and scrutiny, the agony of feeling like she’s two people, Sidney Crosby the hockey player and just Sid - it’s crazy. She knows exactly what she’s sacrificed to get here and she’s never regretted it, not really, because it’s hockey. But now there are so many more of them like Jack and Auston, so young and so talented and-

“It’s, uh. It’s nice to share the spotlight,” she tries to explain quietly.

“Not have the full force of the media glare on you.”

Sid barks a laugh out at Tyler because yeah. If anyone would know, it’s her.

“So. We’re back full circle.” And Tyler leans forward now, resting her chin in her hands. “What are you going to do with it?”

Sid flicks at the edge of the newspaper, eyes darting over the pictures of her and Ovi, of Geno underneath. Her finger gravitates to the edge of Geno’s picture and strokes along the side without thought.

“That’s a pretty good option,” Tyler comments, and she’s leering just a little when Sid looks up. “You know it’s yours the minute you want it.”

Carey shrugs when Sid looks over at her. “Seems as good a time as any to pass the metaphorical torch.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t still be the best in the world,” Tyler agrees slyly. But then her face shifts and changes into something determined. It’s beautiful and radiant and the certainty in it makes Sid a little jealous. Then she smirks. “I bet Matthews would be happy to step up.”

Sid barks out a laugh, startled and real, rolling her shoulders a little as she lets the feeling flood through her. Carey’s eyes are sharp and knowing when Sid finally looks up; Tyler is smug. Sid smiles back. “Let’s win first.”

“Winning and Malkin,” Tyler says on a sigh, but she shoves her chair back dramatically. “Now that’s Sid.”

 

Tyler’s words don’t haunt her, per se, probably because they’re not wrong. _Winning and Malkin. Now that’s Sid._ But they do stick in the back of her mind as she goes back to Pittsburgh and the new season. And it feels different.

Not black and white different. She doesn’t feel differently than when she’d left, high and on top of the world. The summer hasn’t changed her. But the room definitely feels light and optimistic in a way it hasn’t been in a while as she laces up her skates for training camp.

“Sid.”

She glances across the room at Flower, and Tanger leaning against Flower’s stall.

“Good summer?” Flower asks, eyebrows wiggling and clearly angling for _something_. As if they haven’t spoken every week. He’s always one of the first ones to respond to her Snaps.

She rolls her eyes, half out of habit because she knows that tone. “I know you saw all the camp footage.”

“Gallagher’s insane,” Kuni pipes up, because he’s always behind Sid when she’s deflecting Flower and Tanger. “ _Fire hockey?_ ”

“It was Latts, actually,” she replies and lets herself lean back in her stall. “It… actually works?”

It sparks a debate, of course, half because it’s fire hockey and half because it continues to irrationally fascinate more people than Sid likes that so many of the women can actually be in one place without killing each other. She lets herself watch it with a smile this time, glad to be back and with these assholes, until Shearsy settles next to her.

“You do look more relaxed,” he remarks under the sound of the debate. Then, his mouth quirks. “And I don’t think it’s the World Cup.”

Sid can only shrug. She doesn’t know any better than he does because beyond a certain level of chill that’s humming through her blood, mixing with genuine excitement for the season ahead of them, nothing’s changed. Nothing is new, but it definitely feels brighter.

Even more so when Geno bursts into the locker room, loud and a little bit obnoxious. The volume notches up again and Sid feels another bit of tension simply dissolve from her spine. Geno finds her in the crowd and grins, wide and open in a way Sid can’t say she’d anticipated given it was her team that eliminated his from an international competition.

Then again, he’s still Geno and she’s still Sid and she can feel the crest of emotion that comes from a Geno-less summer, regardless of the way they’d seen each other in Toronto for the World Cup. She smiles and ducks her head, focusing on her skates before she blurts things out in the middle of the locker room that she’d murder him for so much as considering right now. And yet, she glances around, at her team, her boys, her family, her _Geno_ and allows the smile to spread across her face.

It’s good to be home.

 

It’s Kuni who shows her the video after practice, approaching her with a weird sort of caution Sid’s come to relate to something going wrong with one the women.

“It’s Eichel,” he tells her, face solemn and tone tentative.

“What did she do this time?” She takes Kuni’s phone, hits play and flinches hard when she hears Jack cry out across the ice. “Shit.”

“There’s no news,” he offers.

“You find out.”

Sid jumps, so focused on the video and mind racing with potential injuries she hadn’t heard Geno’s approach. “What?”

“Text, yes? Find out if Baby Buffalo broken like Oiler.”

“Her name is Jack,” Sid says, with more venom than is really necessary. It’s a sore spot and a soft spot, both because it’s Jack and because a decade later, she and Ovi still can’t escape the rivalry.

“Jack,” he repeats, easy as anything. “Text. See if she okay.”

“I’m sure she’s fine.” Except Sid knows that sound, knows that movement and angle of the ankle. _Kunitz showed me the video. You okay?_

It takes what feels like forever to get a response and then, to Sid’s utter shock, her phone starts ringing. She almost hits the decline button out of reflex. “Jack?”

There’s a shaky breath and Sid feels her shoulders slump in sympathy. “High ankle sprain.”

“Shit.”

Sid is intimately familiar with the high ankle sprain, and familiar with how much of a bitch it is to recover from, especially for women like her and Jack: women with something to prove, something to work for. Women who have to battle the perception of being ‘difficult’ players, picky and persnickety and far from being a media darling. While Sid has never fully achieved the diva status that has seemed to follow Jack, the microscope she’s under is familiar.

“I used fuck, personally.”

Sid barks out an involuntary laugh. “It’s your season.”

“Thanks.”

“Not what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Sid puffs out a breath and glances around, but if the guys are listening, they’re doing a good job of pretending not to. “Look, I-” She stumbles, biting her lip. “Follow all the instructions.”

“I know.”

“ _No_ ,” Sid says emphatically, all the more serious now because this is real, this is different. “No matter what they tell you, you do it. A boot, a scooter…it doesn’t matter how dumb you look okay?”

“Um. Okay? I think I can listen to the doctors.” There’s a rustle of fabric that could be anything, but Sid thinks is probably a shrug. “McDavid already read me the riot act about taking care of myself.”

“He would know,” Sid allows, feeling a bit of pang because even Jack and Connor have managed to sort themselves out. And yes, perhaps she had a role in that but it still feels a little bittersweet considering her own situation. She clears her throat. “Hey, um. Keep me updated, okay?”

“Well yeah,” Jack responds, the eyeroll as clear as if Sid was seeing it herself. “I know you don’t live in the group chat but Segs is literally, like, momming me from afar. It’s really weird.”

Sid snorts despite herself. “She had that ankle issue in the playoffs last year. She may know what she’s talking about.”

“She keeps talking about chicken soup,” Jack says with a sort of hollowness that more than gets across how unimpressed she is. “Chicken soup doesn’t heal an ankle.”

“No.” And she can see both sides of it so clearly: Tyler, who desperately wants to do something to help but there’s only so much she can do from so far away. And Jack, who would prefer to mope by herself right now. “But she’s trying to help. So send her a snap of you eating soup and she’ll be happy.”

Jack laughs. It’s short and harsh but it’s a laugh nonetheless. “I guess I can do that.”

The silence stretches out. Sid sighs inwardly, wondering if this was actually the right thing to do and if she should have asked Steph or Tyler for an update instead. She casts about for a way to sign off that’s not horrifically awkward, when Jack huffs.

“Thanks, Sid. For calling. I...yeah.”

Sid grins. “No problem.”

Geno nudges her after she hangs up. “See? Feel better.”

She’s not sure if he means her or Jack, but either way he’s right. “Yeah.” She taps her phone on her thigh for a moment. “Jack says Segs is ‘momming’ her in the group chat.”

Geno arches an eyebrow. Sid shrugs.

“I think she’s hiding.”

“Seguin? Benn dumb,” Geno agrees. “Not like us.”

Sid’s breath catches. This is it. This is Geno bringing up his ultimatum. And then…and then he doesn’t. He ruffles his hand through Sheary’s hair beside her and ambles back to his stall. The air hisses slowly out of her lungs, a byproduct of too much training on how to keep her calm.

“Uh huh,” Sheary drawls, amusement in his voice. “Not at all like you.”

“Shut up, rookie.”

Sheary’s squawk is worth the blush that lights up her face.

 

Fresh and new, of course, means fresh and new faces, especially with some of the injuries they take in the early part of the season. The kid who walks in to take Sheary’s place while he’s out looks terrified. Sid has to stop herself from shaking her head in resignation. It’s so normal in their locker room - _Malkin, Kessel, Letang, Fleury, Crosby_ \- but it never ceases to make her roll her eyes. She’s about to call him - Guentzel, she remembers Sully saying - over, when Phil elbows his way into the room.

“Hey kid,” she hears him say, watching out of the corner of her eye as the kid stops skittering around, jumps a little, and stands up straight. “We’re back together again, huh?”

Sid’s pretty sure she had no idea someone could even turn that shade of red. The kid looks around the room, presumably for his stall and then she watches him go stark white when he realizes it’s next to her. Phil’s grinning, and so is Kuni a few stalls over as Guentzel picks his way around the logo and to the locker beside hers.

She doesn’t really say anything at first, watching as he so carefully avoids her sticks and doesn’t even try to reach for her tape the way Sheary has a habit of doing. He keeps to himself and tries to keep himself small and contained and Sid rolls her eyes.

“Hey,” she finally says, kicking out at him like she would any of the guys. “You’re here now, eh? Just have fun with it.”

It’s a sentiment she feels with a little more security these days, the knowledge that it is fun, it should be fun, and yeah, it’s their job but it’s so much more. It’s a game and these guys are her family, including the newbies.

“No fair, the new kid’s sucking up to dad!”

Sid’s head whips around to glare at Hags, of all people, who is sitting there smiling sunnily.

“Not dad. She is mama. Like mama bird,” Geno scolds.

“And what, you’re the dad?” Kuni calls, then scoffs. “No way. If anything, you’re the mom and Sid’s the dad.”

“She is terrifying,” Dales agrees. “Scarier than you, G.”

“No one’s scarier than G,” Tanger calls out, though he tosses a wink at Sid and presumably Guentzel. Geno’s chest puffs up and Sid bites her cheek against the bark of laughter in her throat. The kid still looks nervous amongst the chatter, strapping his gear on like he’s on autopilot. Even Geno’s pass by his stall and his quiet, “Relax, kid. Have fun.” doesn’t seem to do much for Guentzel’s nerves.

So just before they do their handshake, she punches his arm. “Let’s make this a memorable game for him, eh?”

“He play with Penguins. Everything memorable.”

Sid laughs her way through their handshake and hits the ice.

But sure enough, Sid watches with glee and awe as Kessel finds Guentzel on his first shift out and Guentzel takes the shot. It goes in and Sid, as much as the rest of the bench, stands and cheers. And then it happens again, a few shifts later, a three on two rush and Guentzel has his second NHL goal in his Penguins debut.

The dressing room is rambunctious. Two goals by a rookie is no small feat and everyone’s coming by, nudging his shoulder, cat calling, chirping. Sid grins and looks at him, but Guentzel’s smile still shakes around the edges and Sid shoves at him. He looks a little shellshocked, head snapping around to stare at her and she shrugs.

“I guess that’s a pretty good entrance to the league,” she comments, easy and happy. Guentzel’s face goes slack in a smile, like the tension drains out of him and Sid grins back and looks around the room at the team, loose and happy for their new rookie.

They’re still solid, just like she is. Still playing, still aiming for the top, pushing to be better, faster, and never happy with anything less than the win. But they’re also family, open and welcoming, warm and understanding. They’re everything, and she has to duck her head and swallow with the emotion of it.

 _It’ll come_ , she thinks to herself. _It always does._

Inevitably.

 

Taylor, however, disagrees with the patient approach. Loudly and while waving a milkshake between them. “You can take on how many Flyers, how many hockey players and you don’t even blink, but one giant, utterly soft Russian and you can’t even put one foot in front of the other.”

“It’s not… he’s the one that said-”

“So what?” Taylor retorts. “It’s not just Geno’s life, you know? It’s yours. You get a choice in this.”

Sid shakes her head. The ball isn’t in her court, despite what Steph said over the summer. It’s solidly in his as the one who said they needed to take a step back and reconsider. He’s always given her that space when she’s asked. The least she can do is give him the courtesy of the same.

“Did you ever think maybe you’re the one who has to say something?” Taylor asks, frustrated now, angrily dunking her fries into her milkshake. “A team is more than one person, Sid. That doesn’t change just because there’s only two of you and just because it’s you and Geno.”

“He started it,” she says, and yeah okay, maybe a little too petulantly given that she’s an actual adult and coming up on thirty years old. Taylor just stares at her, utterly unimpressed. “He’s the one who stepped back this time. He wanted space and he wanted time.”

“He wanted to give _you_ space and time. Doesn’t sound like he’s the one who has to make the move. Like. At all.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am, doofus,” Taylor shoots back with entirely too much affection. “Your side is the side of ‘can you get together already so there doesn’t have to be any more pining.’”

“I’m not _pining_ , what the fuck?” Sid hisses, just barely remembering to keep her voice down.

“It’s pining. We’ve agreed.”

Sid leans back in her chair in horror. “ _‘We_?’”

“We talked about it at camp.” Taylor shrugs, all innocence, like it’s absolutely normal to trade gossip about her sister’s love life. Her very exceedingly private sister’s love life, and a privacy Taylor has never not respected. She kicks Sid’s ankle under the table. “Oh my god, stop. I didn’t share any secrets and I’m a little offended you’d think I would.” She leans in. “You know they all think this is ridiculous. You never do anything the easy way.”

“How is anything about this easy?” Sid asks indignantly, absently kicking back at her. “There are so many reasons we shouldn’t.”

“Do not even.”

“I’m not,” Sid promises, resisting the urge to thunk her head on the table a few times. Wouldn’t _that_ be something for the media. Then, softly, “I’m not.”

Taylor sighs, her expression going soft and sympathetic. “Sid-”

“No.” Sid shakes her head. “Look. I’m not going backwards or anything. I get that it’s time, it should be time. I have two Cups, two gold medals, the World Cup for whatever that’s worth and… so many awards. I’ve proven I’m not just a woman who is good enough to play in the NHL. I can thrive in the NHL. _Women_ can thrive in the NHL. I don’t have to be that… role model.”

“Not like that,” Taylor agrees. “Not anymore.”

Sid taps her finger quickly against the table. “Now it’s about being the best and still-” She laughs a little. “Still having Geno.”

“Exactly.” Taylor’s eyes are shining. “So take the risk. Ask him. Because you are ready, aren’t you? Everything you’ve just said confirms it.”

Is she truly ready? Sid mulls over that for a moment, but that’s not the right question. The question is, does she want to wait any longer? And when it’s put that way, the answer is clear.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” She reaches over and dunks a fry into the milkshake, then makes a face. “Ew. Why would you do that? That’s so gross.”

Taylor nearly falls out of her chair laughing.

 

In the end, it isn’t Sid or Geno that pushes the issue. Not directly anyway. If anything, it’s actually the Flyers who become the inadvertent catalyst. Geno scores his three hundredth goal against them and the Pens _lose it._

Well. Maybe not the whole team, but the ensuing party is loud and boisterous, because Geno doesn’t know how to do it any other way. Which is fine by Sid. She lets herself float along with it, giddy and proud and buoyed by the fact that it’s the Flyers and it always feels sweeter when they win against them. Sure, she and Giroux don’t hate each others’ guts anymore, but the Battle of Pennsylvania is nothing to sneeze at.

She’s looser than normal, relaxed about being back and bright-eyed with how happy Geno is when he loops around to her, finds her in a quiet hall.

“Sid.”

“Hey,” she says and she knows her voice is so, so fond. “Three hundred.”

He chuckles a little, crowding closer because he doesn’t know what personal space is. She lets him. She’ll always let him. Her hands come up to press just below his ribs.

“Congratulations.”

He grins and it’s everything to her. Absolutely everything. She leans up easily and slips a hand around his neck.

“Sid.”

But she’s already brushing her lips against his once. Twice. God, how had she forgotten this.

Geno cups her head in his big hands, holds her steady for a moment. “Sid.”

She keeps her eyes closed to take this in, thinking about five, ten years down the line and what she wants to remember about this moment. It’s clear as day, what she wants to remember. She’d been sure back when they won the Cup; so sure and convinced, but then over the summer and when she’d come back - when _they’d_ come back - and it had been just like it always was, she’d doubted. She’d doubted _herself_ , because she will never doubt Geno, but it had been enough.

He must see it all over her face because a moment later, he grips her waist tightly and her eyes open to his determined face. “No.” He’s insistent, free hand anchoring in her hair. The touch is gentle, but the tips of his fingers press in just a little, insistent. “No. You don’t hide. Not this time. ”

Her eyes float closed again, more protective than she’d like, but she can’t help herself.

“No,” he repeats firmly, startles her into looking at him by pressing his lips so gently to her forehead. “This dumb.”

She can’t disagree, but she doesn’t know where to go. Not when he hasn’t seemed inclined to push. Not when she can remember his face at the end of last season, confident and certain, but also resigned. There are a lot of similarities here, she thinks. The celebration, the milestone, the party; emotions mixing in exactly the way he’d told her not four months before that they couldn’t.

“End of last season I say this it. We go home, we go to Canada and Russia and we come back and we know. But we come back and you never ask. I’m think you don’t want to ask.”

“I didn’t know I could,” she argues, surprised. “You wanted time. You wanted to wait.”

_I was waiting for you._

“You always waiting,” he retorts, not angry, but exasperated, frustrated, and fond all at once. “You always wait for more, for Cup, for right time. How long, Sid? How long you let hockey have everything and make Sid have nothing?”

“I don’t have-”

But he’s worked himself up now, on a roll and ready to push through. Bully through.

“You tell girls, your girls. You say ‘hockey take everything’ and girls know you mean take back. You mean,” he huffs, searching for the words. “You tell them ‘take for you’. And they do. All girls do. Even Eichel take back from hockey. But not you.” His thumb is gentle as it drags beneath her eye. “I’m want you to take. Want you to have everything.”

“I-”

“You _can_.”

Her head shake is more habitual than argumentative. It’s supposed to be her season to start doing that, to start living for herself rather than for hockey and for the Penguins. Her breath shudders as she inhales. “But we didn’t. We didn’t at the beginning of the season and now we’re knee-deep in it and we-”

“Then we do now, Sid. We do this now. This best time because it’s you and me. Us.”

Her heart thumps hard in her chest. There are nerves, sure, but there’s also exhilaration because while she’d started this particular journey down a path they’ve started a hundred times, this time he’s also right beside her, ready to tug her along when she falters. If she falters.

She won’t. Not this time.

“I’m not wait,” he declares quietly, as if she needs more convincing. “I’m want now, Sid. Want you now. Want you always. You and hockey.” His mouth is so gentle against her forehead, her eyebrows, her cheeks. Her breath starts to speed up, her hands white-knuckled in his shirt. He presses his forehead to hers and says, “I’m have both. We have both.”

Her body shudders with it. “Yes.”

“Yes?” There’s so much in his voice, hope and wonder and so, so, so much love. “Sid.”

“Yes,” she repeats. “Us. You and me. A team.”

It’s something they’ve both said time and time again. Put the team first, the organization, the league, the girls, their countries, but Sid, in her single-minded pursuit of hockey, has always found it difficult to look at relationships like this because she’s so used to putting her hockey team first. This is not that kind of team. It’s her and it’s Geno; a team within a team. Always together, always on the same page, always fighting for more, but always, always right beside each other, every step of the way.

“We’re a great team,” she tell him, hands finally coming up to grip his wrists. “We’re an unbeatable team.”

The smile he gives her in response twists her insides up so wonderfully, so beautifully and Sid wants to laugh and cry with it. It feels like the day they won the Cup, the day she won gold not once, but twice. But everything, absolutely everything, feels so, so much better.

“No one better than us.”

“No,” she agrees in a low murmur and wiggles in just a little bit closer, eliminating that last bit of space between them. “No one’s better than us.”

“Sid-”

She doesn’t register the surprise on his face, the absolute joy that he’s broken through, like he doubted, for a split second, that the minute he asked she wouldn’t give. She’s too busy pushing up on her toes, letting him take her not-insubstantial weight so she can brush her lips against his. Geno makes a sound like he’s taken a particularly hard hit into the boards, his hand shifting to grip hard at the back of her neck.

Sid laughs, maybe a little hysterically, flooded with a sort of terrified happiness. Her hand is feather-light on his cheek as she kisses him again, fingertips darting over his skin, curling gently around his ear. His body jerks, then she’s losing her breath as her back meets the wall, his hand on the back of her neck cushioning her head’s impact.

“Sid,” he murmurs into her mouth, like he can’t decide if he wants to say everything or just kiss her. “Sid, Sid, Sid.”

She laughing for real now, light and amused and adoring. It makes kissing him awkward, trying to bend her mouth around her grin, trying to match the insistence in his hands, the way her body twists up against him in want, in love.

Because Sid has spent her entire life dedicating herself to hockey. She loves it, she truly does, and she’s damn well more than earned her spot in the NHL and on the Penguins, but she’s let other things fall to the wayside. She can’t count the number of milestones she’s missed in her sister’s life, the number of friends she’s lost to road trips or “quirks.”

But not Geno. Never Geno. Steadfast and sure in her when she’s not, when she can’t be. Her anchor in this crazy hockey-driven life the same way she knows she is his.

Equal and everything.

 

**Epilogue**

Flower takes one look at them the next morning and sits up straight. “ _Crisse._ It’s happened. It’s happened, hasn’t it?”

The locker room descends into pandemonium as he dives for his phone.

Sid briefly contemplates killing all of them. But Geno catches her eye and beams, bright and incandescent, and she can’t help but smile back, joy bubbling through her. And yes, okay. It’s hard to want to kill everyone when she’s this happy.

Still, she can’t help but notice that Guentzel has gone still, his face paper white, staring straight ahead and looking like someone’s clubbed him over the head. “Are you okay?” she asks, concerned.

“I...I think it’s me,” he whispers. “I think I won.”

“It’s the rookie!” Flower screeches at the same time, and everyone loses their shit all over again.

“I didn’t-” Guentzel starts as they surge towards him. “I wasn’t-”

Sid takes pity on him, and leans forward. “Take a small cut, but the rest of it is going to charity,” she suggests. “No one argues with charity.”

He barely manages a nod before Phil grabs him and whirls him into a reel, laughing like a hyena. Across the room, Geno winks and she can only laugh before the French Canadians mob her, shouting frantically in a mixture of French and English.

The crowd clears slowly, back to pads and practice prep, flying tape balls and chirping and boisterous yelling. It’s the kind of locker room Sid loves, loose and happy and she feels it bubble through her blood, sparking through her muscles. She rolls her shoulders with it and catches Geno’s eye across the room. There’s a pep in his step and, after a quick glance around to see who’s watching, she allows herself just look as he looks back, both of them smiling like idiots. Flower catches her and chirps her because of course he does, threatening to start up a collection for heart eyes in the locker room, but Sid can’t care.

It’s probably better than a Cup, she thinks, having all of this and still having Geno.

Her grin turns a little sharp because there’s still most of the season ahead of them. Which means there’s only one way to find out if there is a difference between winning a Cup before, and winning a Cup now that they’re together.

She intends to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> WOW. WE DID IT GUYS.
> 
> (Ryan's on her honeymoon, that's why she's not at hockey school.)
> 
> For more Girl Brigade, come to tumblr and chat!: [wonthetrade](http://wonthetrade.tumblr.com).


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